


Wolfskinder

by sgtpeppermorrison



Category: Depeche Mode, The Clash
Genre: M/M, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-10
Updated: 2018-02-20
Packaged: 2018-05-12 23:51:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5686393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sgtpeppermorrison/pseuds/sgtpeppermorrison
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if? What if Hitler had won the war? What if England had turned nazi and decided to exterminate Irish people and the «usual other parasites»?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> There is indeed nazism involved, and all the fuckery that goes with it (racial theories, homophobia and violence-for-free), so if you think you cannot handle it, please don't read instead of sending hate, it's the first thing I'm posting here... Please be gentle x3  
> This was inspired by an article I read recently about what England would have been like in the 60's if Hitler had won the war. It's not particularly time-framed, though...
> 
> Also, I'm not a native speaker, so if you notice any grammar mistake, please let me know! :)

As the familiar scratch on the door appeared, it was twenty-three past midnight. Alan had been three times on the verge of giving up everything and flee. So when a hand scratched on his flat’s door, he got up as if his chair had caught fire, tripped on the carpet in the corridor and half-collapsed on the door knob. He flung the door wide open and grabbed the young boy standing by the door by the collar to pull him roughly inside. He slammed the door shut with his heel, concentrating on checking out the pale boy standing in front of him.

«David… You’re in such a state, what happened?»

«I got ripped off and beaten up… I’m sorry I got ripped off… I mean, I ‘ave gunpowder, but not as much as you had asked for, but ‘e wouldn’t give it to me if I didn’t give ‘im the money first… And then ‘e beat me up and fucked off…»

Alan took the teenager by the hand and lead him to their threadbare sofa. He then crouched at his feet and caressed his knee, waiting for other details.

«Dave, tell me exactly what happened. Why did he refuse to give you as much gunpowder as he had said he would? And why did he beat you up?»

«I think… I think he…»

David bit the knuckle of his forefinger and blinked forcefully, trying hard to fight back the tears burning his eyes. Alan sat on the sofa and took his boyfriend’s head and shoulders in his arms, slowly laying them down. He didn’t know what scared him the most: the fact that David had been beaten up, or that their ‘activities’ might have been denounced. David choked back thick tears and stuttered again:

«I think he saw my fucking shamrock…Y’know, under my jacket…»

Alan’s eyes opened wide and his blood froze in his veins. He clung tighter and tighter to the teenager and tried with the greatest difficulties not to show his sheer panic: he could feel his heart beat in his throat and his vision went blur for a split second.

«Doesn’t matter. Doesn’t matter, baby. He doesn’t know your name…»

_Yes he probably does. He knows who I am, so he knows about Dave. Shit, what does he know exactly? Fucking hell._

David was now bawling his eyes out, mumbling pitiful excuses and sniffing every ten seconds. With great regrets, Alan got up from the sofa, leaving Dave alone for a couple of minutes to go make some tea with the tea bags he had already used two times today. He scratched his forehead nervously. The best for David now was to at least leave the town, but they definitely had no money for this. And even less now that the poor guy had been robbed. His whole family lived here, in this godforsaken London, he had no connections, no acquaintances that were trustworthy enough to leave them to take care of the sobbing teenager sprawled across their sofa. David himself had had all of his family arrested practically before his eyes about 3 years ago. Luckily, he had escaped arrest because he had spent the night at Alan’s and had come back home when the truck taking his parents, brothers and sister away had turned the street’s corner. David didn’t have any connections out of London anymore either. The whistling kettle tore Alan from his daydreaming and heavy thoughts. He hadn’t even noticed David coming in. The dark-haired teenager whispered, eyes locked on the floor and hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his trousers:

«You hate me now, right? Maybe I should leave… So you don’t get arrested with me… Cause the SSD aren’t stupid… Two guys living together… They know what it means…»

«David, if we don’t get arrested for being poofs, we’ll get arrested for building bombs and being anarchists. It ain’t no use for you to leave, and anyway I wouldn’t let you. Just tear that shamrock off your jacket and stay in the flat for a few days. They’ll forget about you soon. Didn’t you say your parents had planned saying you had drowned while trying to escape Great Britain on a raft, in case of arrest?»

The teenager nodded sadly.

«Well, then you’re technically dead. I don’t think Jeremy knows your name anyway… C’mere.»

Alan hugged the seventeen year-old and gave him a cup of the only, tasteless tea you could find on the market these days. While he was at it, Alan took a pair of knitting scissors and began taking off that bright green, guilty shamrock solidly sewed to David’s lapel of jacket.

«Shit, you did that well, didn’t you?? It’s almost impossible to take it off without damaging the fabric and making it obvious that something was sewed there… »

Still, the twenty year-old carried on cutting every thread, one by one.

«So you still love me?» David asked when Alan was done with detaching the shamrock and burnt it with his lighter.

«Why wouldn’t I?»

«I fucked up. I almost got us both arrested, and if they don’t come tonight, they might come later to get me, and then they’ll get you cause we sleep together… Plus, I only got 40 grams of gunpowder… I’m so sorry…»

Alan left the shamrock burning in the kitchen sink and went to grip David’s chin to force eye contact.

«David. It’s not your fault. You were wearing two jackets, so it’s really bad luck for you if he saw the shamrock. It’s not your fault, ok? You did what you had to do, you got us gunpowder. That was your mission, and you fulfilled it. Now, take off your clothes and come to the bathroom, you need a warm shower and I need to examine your bruises.»

David did as he was told in complete silence, his throat still tight from having cried. His shot Doc Martens came out with a loud pop because the teenager was so wet from the heavy rain pouring outside. Alan couldn’t help laughing softly at his boyfriend’s state. He’d be soon warm and clean, anyway.

Once he had stepped into the bathtub, David minced with a small devilish smile on his face:

«I don’t want to be alone…»

«What, you want me to come with you?»

The pouty boy nodded frantically and giggled when his boyfriend gave in, rolled his eyes and undressed himself. Alan winced at the coldness suddenly surrounding his body, put the pot of lukewarm water in the bathtub and grabbed a small piece of dirty, grey soap which was only efficient if you were already clean. He smiled lovingly at the boy standing in front of him, who was still hiding his sex shyly and blushed when Alan took his hands to kiss their fingertips.

———————————————

Otto had just turned 18 when his instructors had sent him to England. They said it was the final part of his education. He didn’t really know what he was going to be expected to do, but he was still glad he was moving from the half-orphanage, half-military compound he had always known in Germania.

He checked his papers again; Everything was here: his ID, his laissez passer as a future member of Germania’s elite and his party membership card. They said his mother had abandoned him to a Lebensborn because she couldn’t afford taking care of him, and his father had died for the Motherland. They said he was lucky he had them and the Motherland. When he came to this part of his thinkings, something always came and bugged him, something as light and shallow as a butterfly flapping its wings, but it surely wasn’t as agreeable as this could be. He had this sort of certainty that there was something else. He had tried talking about it, but his instructors had said it was a feeling all orphans had, and it was normal. So he believed them. Why shouldn’t he? He got out of the bus under a pouring rain, in front of the Thames and all his comrades and he lined up and saluted, smacking their heels.

«Sieg Heil! Heil Hitler, heil Germania!» It sounded good. They were beautiful together, like wolves trained to kill. Born to kill.

Otto was torn from his thoughts as Schuldermann barked his name to be heard over the rain.

«Otto Edelkopf!»

«Anwesend, mein Herr!»

«Schnell rein!» Schuldermann pointed at a huge, red and yellow brick building, which, much to Otto’s disappointment, looked a lot like another military compound.

«Jawoll , mein Herr!»

Otto scampered to the building while Schuldermann carried on calling his comrades. The strap of his burlap cloth bag was causing him a burning pain in the shoulder. Neue Reichswehr soldiers were delivering the freshly arrived Aryener Jugend a pair of sheets and asking for their papers. When Otto got his sheets and handed one of the soldiers his ID and papers, he probed the man’s face in front of him. One of the first things they were taught was to avoid showing their emotions, and yet the eighteen year-old was sure he had seen the soldier’s lips twist in a rictus of annoyance, and his eyes widen for a split second. The NRW soldier still didn’t add anything, so Otto took the direction he had been shown and threw his bag and sheets on the first unoccupied bed he found in the gigantic dorm room. He patted the mattress and sat on it to take off his heavy AJ boots.

«Na?» The blond Aryener Jugend member got up in the blinking of an eye and smacked his heels as the soldier entered the dorm room.

«Bist du allein hier?»

«Sieht so aus, mein Herr. Andere Aryener Jugend Kammeraden werden wahrscheinlich später ankommen. Ich glaube ein letzter Bus kommt in einige Stunden an, mein Herr.»

The blond soldier was wandering between the wrought iron beds, his hands clasped behind his back. Otto probed him as much as he could from where he was, without allowing himself to leave his saluting position.

«What’s dein Name noch einmal?»

«Otto Edelkopf, mein Herr.»

The soldier stared intently at the young man in front of him, as if he was desperate to speak, held back by a sort of modesty. _Ja, ich habe verstanden, was du meinst. Es gibt etwas anderes hier. Etwas so schwer und riesig wir fühlen das Gewicht davon auf unseren Schultern nicht mehr._

It had lasted for a split second, but it was enough. The butterfly-wing-flapping feeling was back at the back of Otto’s head. Did the soldier think of the same thing, the same feeling of missing something they had never known and couldn’t name? The blond, skinny-faced soldier held out a hand to the boy without breaking eye contact.

«Mein Name ist Berthold Aschenbrecher. Hoffentlich bist du ein vertrauenswürdiger Junge.»

«Ich glaube ja, sir.»

Otto’s answer had barely been a whisper, but he was about to regret it until he saw Aschenbrecher’s lips curl into a discreet, elusive smile. Their shaky, uncertain bonding fell into pieces when the soldier’s glance became piercing and predatory again. Icy. Like the Reich liked it to be. Aschenbrecher left the room a bit too hurriedly to seem serene, and it didn’t escape Otto’s keen sense of perception. He secretly hoped the older man knew that too.

————————————————

 _Fuck fuck fuck… Gonna get arrested again fuck…_ Andrew swore under his breath. Once again, he had spent too much time in the library, and the curfew for celtic English people had already begun two hours ago. If he was to be arrested, it would be the third time, and the State Security Division men had warned him about the risks taken when being arrested for the third time for not respecting the curfew. They had remained quite blur, but Andy knew what awaited him.

The redhead picked up the pace as he was nearing Saint Paul’s cathedral. He’d be home soon. He was feeling as if his heart could explode at every moment, and it seemed to the young man he only breathed again once he had quietly shut the door of his bedsit. He hurried to his kettle, stuck it on the gas cooker and crouched on the wooden floor, holding a sharp knife in his hand. He slid the blade between two battens and with a swift flick of the wrist, he removed one as soundlessly as possible. Andy reached for a small box which was tightly closed by a thin, blue velvet ribbon.

Soon he’d feel ecstatic, and the simple fact to know this was sending shivers of thrill through his veins. In one little plastic bag was pot. In an other, bigger one was real, south american coffee. Not the one the New Celtic English Government was struggling to grow in the cold British glasshouses and make the population believe it was the best in the whole world, apart from the aryen one, because who could do it better than them?

Andy poured a teaspoon of coffee in the kettle not to use too much coffee he wasn’t even allowed to own. He breathed in for a split second the delicate scent of the dark brown powder and closed it brusquely, as if he had felt observed. He then picked the pot bag and sat on the floor to roll a small joint with all the precautions in the world. Pot was even more expensive than south american coffee on the black market. It still came from the same place, but it costed more money. Andy frowned at the thought, but shrugged it off as he crept lazily to reach his lighter. As soon as he breathed the smoke in, he felt like he had forgotten about everything: his boring studies, the government and his henchmen, the curfew, and his neighbours.

He sighed in annoyance and put a strand of hair out of his eyes. He knew what the two young, shy guys living next door were on about. He could _hear_ them practically every night, the paper-thin walls of their building not helping. Andy scratched his forehead in an attempt to remember the guys’ names. Were they… Dave and Charlie?

The young man sighed heavily as he couldn’t care less about what his neighbours were doing with themselves in bed. What he needed right now was to carry on smoking, and drink his coffee. As the kettle whistled, Andy got up as supplely as he could, the pot not helping him with his slender, strengthless and much too tall body. When he had finished his coffee and pot, he put everything back where it belonged and covered his windows with news papers sheets to diminish the emission of light outside his window and carry on with his homework. He checked his watch mindlessly. It indicated 1 am. It was probably too late for his neighbours to start their nightly activities, so the redhead sighed in relief and opened his theology books.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More trashy stuff coming. If you have haemophobia, I advise you not to read this!! Things turn out quite shitty for Andy, Al and Dave...

 

CHAPTER TWO

 

 

«Halt! Edelkopf ist noch nicht bewaffnet! Schnell, du Schwachkopf!»

Otto hurried to his weapons and buckled his belt from which his gun was hanging. He placed his right foot on the line, lifted his arm and waited for the signal to shoot on the targets they were all facing.

«Feuer!»

A thunder of shootings rang out and Otto couldn’t help closing his eyes once again. Only one bullet was in his target. He was probably going to get beaten up, but he knew they were right: he needed to get better, and if this was the only way for him to, then he was ready to be whipped. He hadn’t even noticed Aschenbrecher had arrived next to their instructor, but he definitely did when he examined the results himself. Otto felt his palms sweating. He was ashamed of it, he was an aryan, he couldn’t be scared, not even of his instructors. He wasn’t allowed to. And yet, when Aschenbrecher took him by the arm and smashed his head against his target, he felt his blood freeze in his veins. He knew Aschenbrecher wasn’t like the others, there was something about him he couldn’t put his finger on but that definitely terrified and thrilled him at the same time.

«Bist du sicher, dass du einen Aryener bist? Bist du einen Aryener?»

«Ja, mein Herr!»  Otto moaned, his face smashed against the target one more time.

«Dann schieß mal wieder!» Aschenbrecher barked.

The slender officer released Otto and the young AJ went back to his previous position, put some more bullets in his gun with trembling hands and shot after a split second of hesitation. He had closed his eyes one more time, but had shot three times inside the target. Still, Aschenbrecher was frantically chewing on his cold cigarette and Otto riveted his eyes to the floor in a sign of submission. This time, even if the man was out of his sight, he could feel him approaching. He squeezed his eyes shut as he felt all eyes set on him and already could hear sniggers coming from seemingly everywhere. His head was spinning, and as he was fainting, Aschenbrecher caught him and dragged him out of the training field.

When they were finally out of sight, he sat him roughly on the ground and contemplated him for a long, whole minute. He then crouched before him and slapped him slightly. Otto came back to his senses and locked eye contact with the officer.

 

«Erinnerst du dich an mich? Erinnerst du dich, dass du mir schon gesehen hast? Dass wir zusammen schon gesprochen haben?» the officer asked in a terrifyingly neutral tone.

«Ja, mein Herr.» Otto answered very weakly.

«Erinnerst du dich, dass ich dir gefragt habe, entweder du vertrauenswürdig warst oder nicht?»

«Yes, sir.»

As he realized what had just happened, Otto froze and opened wide eyes. He wasn’t able to actually do anything. He was just sitting there, in front of his Aryener Jugend instructor, and had spoken in English. He couldn’t believe what he had just done. What was this supposed to even mean?

«Bitte entschuldigen Sie, ich weiß nicht was mir geschehen ist, bitte mein Herr entschuldigen Sie! Bitte!» Otto pleaded, his meager arms ready to protect his face from the truncheon hanging at Aschenbrecher’s belt. Aschenbrecher didn’t say a word. His face was still completely neutral. He swiftly looked in all directions and replied very calmly:

«Aber _ich_ weiß, was mit dir los ist. Was mit euch alle los ist. Nur ich und die Haupt Entschiedner wissen Bescheid. Und _ich_ sollte nicht Bescheid wissen.»

Otto blinked twice before Aschenbrecher carried on.

«Ab Heute bist du meinen eigenen Lehrling. Ich werde Schuldermann sagen, dass du… Ich werde eine Entschuldigung finden. Ab Heute müssen wir uns total vertrauen. Verstanden?» Aschenbrecher’s face was now inches away from Otto’s. His sharp cheekbones, his icy, blue eyes, his meager cheeks, his coral, full lips, everything was fascinating and impressing Otto. He nodded weakly.

Aschenbrecher got up and held out a hand to Otto. They practically ran to Aschenbrecher’s office to Otto’s taste, who was much smaller than his new personal instructor, and as the officer slammed the door shut, he sighed as if in pain and sank into an armchair.

«What’s your name?»

«Otto Edelkopf.»

«Where do you come from?»

«A Lebensborn house in Oberhausen.»

«So you are an orphan?»

«Yes sir.»

«You got it all wrong. You’re not german, you’re not an orphan, you weren’t born in a Lebensborn house in the Ruhrgebiet, and you’re not Otto Edelkopf.»

Otto was trembling. Trembling with terror, anger, he didn’t exactly know. Somehow, he knew something so big was to happen, judging the way Aschenbrecher’s shifty eyes avoided him, the way he looked absolutely exhausted right now, and the way his attention was focused on him, when one of the golden rules of the AJ education was to educate a mass of clones for the Reich, and not kids as individuals. He felt like weeping, but also screaming, he wanted to murder the person sitting in front of him, he wanted to know more, he wanted Aschenbrecher to say this was all a joke, he wanted to wake up, he wanted anything but this that was happening to him right now. He was wheezing and breathing with great difficulties.

«Sit down.» Aschenbrecher simply said.

«Nein! Nein, ich will mich nicht hinsetzen, ich will wissen, was mit Ihnen los ist? Denken Sie, dass es lustig ist? Sie sind ein Arsch!» Otto shrieked in a high-pitched, desperate voice. The officer had barely let him finish his sentence and shut him up with his large, strong hand over his mouth.

«You think this is a joke? You do? Then how come you understand me very well? Uh? How come? Have you never had the feeling you were being deceived? Haven’t you? This all -he waved towards the training field- is a fucking joke. Not what I’m saying. Do you know why you were sent here? Because you’re English. They want to test you, they want to know if you’re still attached to your roots. Technically, you are, because you understand what I’m saying. And do you know why I speak so well English? Because I _am_ English too. Your whole division is composed by English guys. They want to test you all. And the ones still attached to their roots will be sent to fight on the Chinese front. You will be sent to suicide. Because you are the weak, sentimental ones. Because you threaten the whole system. That’s it. Now you better shut your mouth if you don’t want us to get killed. Do you understand?»

 

Otto had lost all track of time, he was freezing, he was suffocating, he was sweating, he was lost. When Aschenbrecher was sure the young man was unable to react or scream, he led him to an armchair and sat him. He reached out and stroked the young man’s hand and wrist.

«Are you ok?»

«What’s my name?»

Aschenbrecher smiled imperceptibly and got up. He signaled Otto to come with him. They walked for what seemed to Otto like an eternity, and finally reached an office on the door of which was written «AJ Rekrutierung» Aschenbrecher opened the door without a sound and closed it behind Otto.

«Alle sind weg. Heute ist Samstag, und alle wollen sich ein bisschen hier erholen.» he said with an apologetic smile. Otto nodded. He felt dizzy and weak in the knees. He was about to discover his whole life had been a lie. Aschenbrecher was searching feverishly into a pile of files he had just extirpated of the most imposing desk.

«Ebensturm, Edelherz, Edeljung… Edelkopf, da bist du…» He held out a small, thin, file with Otto’s name written on it, in huge, gothic letters. Otto could barely reach out. His hands were shaking like never before, he could barely grasp the tiny file. He hurriedly went back to sit on an armchair and opened it with force.

 

_Gore Martin, geb. 23. Juli 1961 in Dagenham, Großbritannien._

_Am 15. Februar 1966 in London entführt._

_Entdeutschung bisher geschafft._

_15.02.1968_

 

«How… How come? Warum kann ich mich an gar nichts erinnern, ich war schon 4!» He mumbled, at a complete loss.

«I was abducted when I was older. I remember everything and believe me, it’s- it’s better you don’t.» Aschenbrecher stuttered. «Come on, let’s get out of here. Let’s go for a walk.» The officer pulled Otto out of the office after having put everything back in the right place.

Once they reached a near forest, Aschenbrecher sat on a rock and took  off his cap.

«Paul Simonon.» He held out a hand as if to shake it.

«Martin Gore.» The AJ member answered, firmly shaking the officer’s hand. Paul sniggered and shook his head in despair.

«I know. I know you’re Martin Gore, I remember when you arrived in a Lebensborn, I was there. I spied the doctors and discovered I wasn’t the only one who had been abducted. I remember you were howling, punching and crying, yelling «I want me mom, I want me mom!» I swear, that was terrible to see…»

«Why?! Warum haben Sie gar nichts gemacht?»

«I was nine, you idiot! I was nine and traumatized enough to know what they were going to do to you. But you can’t remember.»

«Was haben sie gemacht?»

«They gave you this so-called electroconvulsive therapy in the hope the shocks would make you forget about everything. Apparently, it did. I was lucky enough to have a guardian angel when I arrived here. A doctor who refused to give me this therapy and taught me how to pretend I was having them. I never got to actually know his name. Funny, that…»

 

—————————————————

 

Andrew woke up in the middle of the night to the sound of yells downstairs. He could barely understand what was being said, but he knew his neighbours were possibly the next people to get arrested, be it tonight or in two days. So as soon as he remembered there was a communication door between their two flats, he rushed towards the door and banged on it, hoping they would open and rush into his flat to escape arrest. The Gestapo was getting closer, the footsteps frantic, loud, heavy. The yells terrible. A first door was crashed open, a family expelled from their flat. A young, bewildered man opened the door after a few seconds, Andy grabbed him by the collar and forced him inside. He hadn’t even noticed he wasn’t wearing anything except for a dirty, white shirt.

«Your boyfriend?»

«Out.»

«’Kay, now shut up.»

Andy had barely had time to finish his sentence that the flat from which the young man came was broke into. The two heard a name being yelled once, twice, thrice. «Alan Charles Wilder!» He nodded at the trembling man, asking silently if it was him. Alan closed his eyes, weeping silently and nodding slowly as if he was scared of breaking his neck. 

Andy showed him the window, rushed to a suitcase, took a thick rope out of it and handed it to Alan. «Flee» he mouthed to the man, and left the room without a word. As he was about to shut the door, the Gestapo crashed the door of his flat. They were 3 and had two furious, wild dogs. They all had guns and were pointing them at Andy. He lifted his hands in sheer terror. Silence. And then:

«Alan Charles Wilder?»

«No. Don’t know him.»

«Was hat er gesagt?»

«Den kennt er nicht, sagt er.»

«So who are you?» the third one asked. He was slowly stepping towards Andy, still pointing at him with his weapon. He had no accent.

«Andrew Fletcher.» he stuttered.

 

The man who seemed to be the leader made a swift sign at the others to go look for their man. The dogs were barking without interruption.

 

«Andrew John Leonard Fletcher?» The officer asked, looking skeptically at a piece of paper.

Andy nodded frantically, keeping an eye on the dogs.

 

«I couldn’t hear.»

«Yes sir.» the student muttered.

«I couldn’t hear!» the officer howled, loading his gun.

«Yes sir!» he said a little louder, protecting his face with his arms instinctively.

 

He had to tell Alan. He had to or he would be shot in front of his eyes, or worse, eaten by the dogs. You could expect anything from the dogs: it was well-known that the Gestapo made each of their dogs taste human blood. That was the only thing he could think of right now. Before he realized it, he had turned his back to the Gestapo and yelled, running towards his bedroom. «Alan, fuck off! Fuck off while ye can!»

Alan panicked, he had heard everything, but what could he do? He would be shot while fleeing anyway. For a split second he saw Andy’s face at the door, still yelling at him to flee, and then the young man was lying on the floor in a pool of blood. The Gestapo officer was barking even louder than the dogs.

 

It took Alan less than a quarter of second to react and jump out of the window. He couldn’t believe he was still alive after having jumped from the second floor, but didn’t allow himself much time to think, as he could already hear more shootings coming from the window frame. He hid laying behind the building’s low stone wall and as he looked above it, all he saw was that the Gestapo had thrown Andy’s corpse outside the window. His mouth was hanging wide open, his eyes were empty, and his face and chest covered with blood. Alan felt his face twist in an expression of horror without being able to suppress it, he felt he was on the verge of hysteria, but he had to flee. 

He got up and ran as fast as he could. His brain went numb, he couldn’t think, couldn’t feel, couldn’t hear. He couldn’t feel the gravel tear the delicate skin of his feet, couldn’t feel how cold he was, couldn’t hear the shootings behind him. Couldn’t feel his nausea. Couldn’t feel the warm tears burning his cheeks. 

When he couldn’t run anymore, he was facing the Thames, clinging to the low wall of a bridge, whichever it was. He hadn’t managed to escape from the Gestapo, but he couldn’t run anymore, his knees were giving in, he was about to throw up, he had bloody feet, he was breathless. Maybe…

He sat on one of the low walls and bawled his eyes out. He guessed the dogs of the Gestapo would soon get him. Maybe if he jumped, he could swim for a while just to make them believe he had taken to another direction. Or just die drowning. Footsteps were approaching, barks were becoming louder. Alan stopped thinking and dropped into empty space eyes closed, secretly hoping he could die about just right now. 

His fall surprised him even though he had planned it, and he was breathless for a split second. He was even more surprised not to be wet as he hit the water. He hadn’t even managed to genuinely break through it.

 

«Oi, Mick, look at that, it’s not raining cats and dogs, it’s raining people now! Look at that!»

«Wot?»

 

Alan froze. He had fallen on a lighter transporting coal. He heard the two sailors approaching on the mountain of coal. Before he could think of fleeing again and jumping into water, he was caught by both arms and lifted up. He couldn’t stand.

 

«Tell you wot, ‘e must be a Jew.»

 

Alan felt he was fainting.

 

«Nah, look at the… He’s not a Jew. Maybe an I-»

The young man lost consciousness.

 

When he woke up, he was laying in a tiny bed, still wearing his dirty white shirt. It took him a few seconds to remember what he was doing here. And then he sobbed. Endlessly. Loudly. He felt like screaming. Like dying. He had just lost everything. He hadn’t possessed much things in his life, but he had lost the apple of his eyes. He knew it, he felt it. He knew David had been arrested, the feeling was surreal, but it was there, twisting his stomach and tying it into a knot.

When two little boys entered his room, he didn’t even bother saying hello or even stopping crying. In fact, he hadn’t even noticed them. All he could see was the delicate, angelic face of David. His slender, almost feminine body. And then he saw Andy, covered with blood. Dead. Lying a few meters away from him. Alan couldn’t help curling into a little ball, clutching strands of his hair and howling in despair. The two little boys reached out and caressed his face, hair and arm.

 

«Why are you crying? You’re safe here, you know.» The bigger one softly whispered.

«What’s you name? Where do you come from? What happened to you?» The little one pipped.

 

The older one shushed who seemed to be his little brother and asked to go get «Mick and Topper». The curly, blonde-haired little boy toddled off, all smiles, calling after them. «You don’t have to speak right now. Just so you know, my name’s Tom, and my little brother’s Sami. We are fleeing to Hamburg because my parents are anarchists and they were arrested. And, you know… With the Sippenhaft… … Well hum… I will get you something to drink and to eat.»

Alan had barely listened to what Tom had said. He felt empty. Like an empty and broken eggshell. He didn’t even know if -hell, he couldn’t even think- he was still able to speak. The two seamen appeared. One crouched next to the bed and started talking.

 

«Hey, hum, so you fell a  few hours ago on our boat. Hum… Maybe you could tell us where you come from… Or at least your name? Maybe?» He took off his cap and scratched his head, visibly embarrassed. He didn’t even dare holding out his hand to Alan to greet him. He simply said:

«I’m Mick, and this is Topper. We… We’re going to Hamburg. For the kids. You wanna get there too I suppose.»

Alan had spaced out long time ago and was staring straight away, at nothing.

 

«We… You stay with the kids ok?»

 

The two men left. As he shut the door, Topper turned to Mick and whispered: «He can’t be dangerous, hell, he’s a vegetable! D’you think he’s a…» He made a sign to mean Alan was mentally ill.

«Can’t tell you, mate, he must be traumatized, remember he fell on the boat. Maybe he wanted to kill himself… Dunno. Give him a little time. What can happen on a boat anyway?» Mick smiled softly.

«He reminds me of Zygmund. Y’know, the one we took on the boat on Christmas day. He’s got the same eyes.» Topper whispered, pensive. 

 

—————————————————

 

David could barely believe what was happening to him. He was sitting at the back of a truck. He had just been arrested, but he could hardly realize it. What had happened? He didn’t realize he had been speaking out loud.

 

«Don’t you remember? Are you nuts? We got arrested. Me because I’m a punk Armenian jew, and you because you’re an Irish punk. Don’t you remember?»

«I want Charlie back.»

 

David sobbed. The man sitting next to him took him on his lap, and David lifted his eyes to him. It was Joe Strummer. The famous one. The one everyone was talking about in the punk community. Joe frowned and nibbled at the piercing David had in his nose.

 

«We gon’ take it off before the Gestapo does, or you’ll fucking suffer. I already got arrested once, so I know their methods. Wot’s yer name?»

«David.»

«Yer a Jew?»

«No, I’m an Irish poofter…»

 

David sobbed again. What was he going to do? Did Alan manage to flee? Had he gotten arrested? Joe shushed him gently, watching the Gestapo henchmen staring at them. He knew they were dying to hit them to make them shut up. He knew them all too well.

He stared outside as he remembered his previous escape from the transition camp of Leicester. The feeling of almightiness as he had been standing on the other side of the barbed wire fence, and then had run away smiling until his cheeks hurt, laughing breathlessly, soundlessly. 

And there he was again. At the back of a Gestapo truck, sitting with other punks who had been globally arrested for the same reasons: they were either jewish, anarchist, gay, or Irish since the British government had decided they were parasites, just as well as the previously mentioned categories of persons, or all of those at the same time. The roundup had been as fast as this Blitzkrieg the history books were praising, back in 1939 in Poland. Joe had been taken from behind, his guitar thrown at the audience, the equipment shot at, and the doors of the hall blocked by the henchmen that were now staring at him and this little boy curled up on his lap. _Boy_ …

 

«How old are ye?»

«17.»

«Lemme take yer piercing outta yer nose for ye. If we let ‘em take it off, better say goodbye to yer pretty baby face.»

«Why would they take it off anyway?»

«Don’t you know? They take everything! Yer choker, chains, suspenders, leather arm bands, studded leather jackets… They want everything that can remotely have some sort of value or can be useful on the Chinese front. So be prepared to bloody freeze when you get out of the first barrack.»

«Wot? They take it from me? But…»

«Bloody hell where have ye been leaving all these years! They’re a bunch of thirsty rats! They will use ye to the core!»

«Schweig ihr zwei!!» One of the Gestapo officer barked, pointing his shiny gun at them.

 

David froze, trying his best to hold back the panic attack he was feeling coming. His arms were starting to jitter uncontrollably, his breathing was heavier, shakier, unevener with each second. He couldn’t either control it when he threw his head back and arched his back, almost falling over. He still felt Joe holding him the best he could, but he already had the impression he wasn’t really there anymore.

Joe watched his new friend convulsing in his arms in sheer horror, not knowing what to do. The most terrifying in this was he didn’t know what the officer was going to do about it: Was he going to shoot the teenager, to kick him to death, or in the best case, do nothing about it? He lifted his bewildered eyes to the officer, pleading him with a glance. The officer just stared at the small, fragile body convulsing and sniggered, his eyes full of despise. He loaded his gun.

Joe hadn’t even noticed all were staring at them, not even daring to breathe not to break the silence. He shook his head slowly, as if his movement would have broken the silence as well. Only David’s heavy breathing and his boots kicking the bank were to be heard.

 

«Du killst him nicht, nein?» A shaky voice rose from the bottom of the truck. Two wide eyes pierced through the darkness of the truck, a meager face made its appearance.

«Wenn er damit sofort aufhört, dann nicht.»

«Er kann nicht! Er ist krank!» Joe yelled, emerging from his stupor.

«Schweig!!» The officer shot in the tarpaulins above their heads.

 

David was convulsing even harder. He could sense everything as if he was trapped in a magnifying glass, and was even more panicking because he couldn’t stop his convulsions. He had the strong impression he was choking.

Joe was clinging on to the teenager, as if the tighter he clung to the boy, the better he could protect him. The boy who had intervened sprung on his feet, seemingly ready to throw the officer over the fence of the truck. Anger was shining in his eyes. Nobleness in fury had traced the features of his face, his lips were twisted like a distrustful wounded wild animal would curl up his whisker pads.

 

«Dein Name?»

«John.»

«John what??» The officer pointed the barrel of his gun at the redhead.

«John Lydon.» The boy answered, not breaking eye contact with the officer.

«Gut. Du stehst jetzt auf der Liste.»

 

—————————————

 

Otto was unable to sleep this night. He was twisting in his sheets, getting sweatier and sweatier. So he was not German. He had been abducted and brought to a Lebensborn, just like all of his comrades. He wondered what his comrades’ names were, where they came from. He would probably have to kill Englishmen and women. Maybe his parents, without knowing it. Were they all chosen only by aesthetic criteria? Or were they all abducted from their resistant families? Seeing all of his blond, slim, tall and muscular counterparts, he guessed they were picked by aesthetic criteria.

He was stricken by a strong, irrepressible want to learn english. But what would happen then? Even if he hid it to his instructors, he knew it would be like written all over his face he was betraying the race. Tomorrow was a free day for them, they had the allowance to wander in London freely for the day. He could buy a book in eng- _Nein nein, ich kann das nicht. Ich kann damit nicht anfangen._  

He sat up on his bed, struggling with his own thoughts. The Reich was his only certainty, this was the only thing he had known all his life. It had fed him, given him a bed, an education, warm clothes. Why would he betray them? But he was now also certain he was technically no aryan, so why should he stay here?

He got up as soundlessly as possible, took the packet of cigarettes in his AJ jacket and got out, feeling a sudden urge to breathe some fresh air and relax with a nice ciggy between his cold, pale lips. 

He sat on the stairs outside the military compound and reached for his cigarettes. He had forgotten the lighter. _Fucking idiot._ His thoughts surprised him again and he froze for a split second, as if it had been possible someone had heard him. He panicked even more when he heard footsteps approaching from the inside of the building. He whipped his head around and recognized Aschenbrecher, but couldn’t really tell if he was supposed to be relieved or not. He looked furious.

 

«Are you off ye head?? You wanna get spotted for having a weird behaviour since we been talking together?? Go back to sleep you fucking idiot!»

«I’m… Ich will nicht hier bleiben. Ich will weg, ich will meinen Eltern wieder kennen lernen.»

«Well that’s too late. I’ve been noticed already, I can tell. So you go back to sleep, keep shutting your mouth and do what you’re asked to do. God, I should have never told you about all this.» Aschenbrecher sighed, rubbing his forehead with the tip of his fingers.

«Ne, Sie haben recht, warum haben Sie mich Bescheid gesagt? Ich brauchte das nicht! Sie sind doof und richtig schön egoistisch!»

«Shut your mouth!» «I’m trying to think of a way to make you disappear into nature, for your information! Go back to sleep, I’ll make you come to my office when I have something. I’ll make you call for a problem of conformity of your Identity photo, understood?»

«Ja. Danke für alles.»

«Nicht dafür. Bis bald.»

 

Aschenbrecher disappeared so fast Otto wondered if he had ever been there. He decided to stay for a very short while outside, walked a few steps on the stairs and went back inside. So he was to be set free and left to his own fate, somewhere in England. Would Aschenbrecher give him an address? A city where to go? Train tickets? Or should he do everything on his own once Aschenbrecher had covered his flee? He was both thrilled and terrified of this turn of events. He didn’t even doubt one second that his flee could be delayed or that Aschenbrecher could betray him to save his own life. He finally fell asleep when he managed to convince himself it was all going to go smoothly.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry you guys, it's a short one, and it's strictly about Al this time...  
> Alan gets to know more about the boys' background and their family.

CHAPTER THREE

«So what’s your name, mate?» 

Topper asked, in the hope that some day, they would get to know him better to adapt their behaviour and stop either doubting his brain capacities or his belonging to the SSD. He helped Alan a potato even though he knew now he wouldn’t touch it like all the other times.

«You won’t tell us? We gon’ think you’re a shark from the SSD or the Gestapo and we gon’ have to kill ye.»

Alan sobbed endlessly again. He didn’t feel like doing anything: neither denying the accusations, nor telling his name. He didn’t even wish he could die right now. He didn’t even have the strength for that anymore. He wiped his eyes and took a shaky, deep breath, hoping he could find the will and power to tell his name.

«A- Alan…»

«Hey Mick, he said something!»

Mick shot him a death glare and helped the children some fish. He proposed some to Alan, who shook his head apologetically.

«Mate, don’t pay attention to this dickhead, he’s just teasing, but you must have something else on your mind, right? You can tell us anything you want. Do you wanna go to Hamburg, or should we let you leave before we change boat to sail to Hamburg? Just nod or shake your head. Wanna go to Hamburg?»

Alan nodded. He had nowhere to go, anyway.

«Cool. We’ll forge a new visa for you, we might have one or two left. Ye gon’ be a danish fisherman, how cool does that sound, mate?» Mick said softly, as if he was afraid of hurting Alan if he spoke too loud.

Alan tried a smile, but he guessed it looked like a grimace and felt like weeping again. He was safe, but the same couldn’t be said about Dave. Three days without anywhere to go could only lead to his arrest, even if there hadn’t been any roundup during the concert. Or maybe he had found someone to protect him. Or simply fallen in love with, and forgotten about him. Alan felt like he was choking and dove his face between his hands, sighing like he was in pain.

«Hum… You… Well, do whatever you want, you’re free here, and hum… But first, maybe you should get some new clothes and a shower… You must be freezing with only that shirt on. Plus, it’s really bloody dirty and I think there’s a hole in it. Tom and Sami, when yer finished, yi’ll take care of him.»

The two little boys nodded enthusiastically and smiled at Alan, who simply avoided looking at them, concentrating on reducing the potato in his plate into purée. When their plates were empty, he was led to a small cabinet with a sink, which he supposed was used as a bathroom. The little boys had put water to boil in a kettle in the kitchen and Tom poured it in a bassin with cold water for it not to be too hot.

«Can you take off your shirt, please? We don’t want to do it for you because maybe you don’t like it, and anyway, we don’t think you’re a vegetable.» Sami pipped.

His older brother shot him a death glare, revolted that his brother had vaguely implied somebody here was taking their new guest for a vegetable. The curly, blond-haired little boy blushed a deep shade of red and reached for soap not to make it too obvious.  
Somehow, this little scene had brought a smile to Alan’s face, and he stripped and sat in the bassin without even thinking about it. The bassin was a little too tight, but if he sat with his thighs right against his chest, it was just fine. Sami reached out and gave him soap, and then sat on the sink, balancing his feet in rhythm.

«Where do you come from, Al?»

The young man stopped in track and looked at Sami with wide eyes. He had once again been daydreaming and closed himself to the world, so when the little boy’s voice broke the silence, he was almost jump scared. He swallowed with difficulty and opened his mouth to answer:

«London.»

«And why are you here? What happened? I wasn’t there when you came…»

«Fell off a bridge.»

«A bridge?? But why? What happened?»

Alan bit his lower lip and blinked forcefully to chase the tears off his eyes. Tom sighed and shook his head at his brother, then asked him to get Alan new clothes.

«Where?»

«I don’t know, don’t stay there with your mouth wide open, go ask! God, you’re so slow!»

Sami frowned and stuck his tongue out to his brother and slammed the door of the cabinet. Tom spoke again:

«He’s 5, he’s curious, don’t be mad. He’s nice, just a little slow. Feel free to talk whenever you want to.»

A few seconds of silence followed. And then, not being able to hold it back any longer, Alan spoke, with a hoarse, deep voice:

«I fell off the bridge because I had no solution… I was trapped, the Gestapo was gonna get me. They wanted me because I’m an anarchist, I build bombs. I was in my flat, and the neighbour saved me, he took me in his flat by the communication door. I was going to bed, so I was partly naked, that’s why. But then they came in his flat, so they shot him, but I jumped out of a window. Then I ran, but I felt like I wanted to vomit, I was too feeble, and I had no choice, so I jumped into water, but then your boat came along. You saved me.»

The little boy opened wide eyes and stuttered:

«Wow shi- I mean… Yeah, wow…»

He contemplated the tip of his dirty tennis shoes. And then, softly, he muttered :

«It’s nice you’re coming along with us. My nunky is waiting for us in Hamburg, he’ll help you as well. When I grow up, I want to be as cool as him and I want to be an IRA soldier like him.»

«You guys are Irish?»

«Aye! My parents and I were born in Killybegs, but Samuel was born in London because there was no job for my daddy.»

Alan and Tom remained in a comfortable silence. Sami burst into the room panting, bowing down under the weight of the clothes Topper gave him for Charlie.

«Oiii, it’s so heavy! Al, we didn’t find shoes for you, but Mick is getting you a pair as soon as we’re stopping in Southend to change boats. You got a cool jacket, anyway.»

Alan smiled at the toddling little guy. Obviously, he was fascinated by the red smocks that Breton sailors wore. It was a little too loose at the shoulders, but apparently you wore it like that so you could put on a jumper underneath.  
He hadn’t needed to say thank you, Mick had waved knowingly and winked at Charlie as he had wanted to show his gratefulness. All he was given to understand was, as Mick and Topper were in charge of the boat, Charlie’s job would be to keep the kids quiet and comfort them from time to time.  
The kids’ uncle was called David Galvin. He was born in Belfast and according to Tom, he was tall and quite strong, not the type of guy you want to mess with. But then again, even if Tom was older, he was still a 10-year-old talking about his adored and long-time-not-seen uncle. When Tom was talking about Galvin, he was unstoppable. He had confessed Alan, his favourite story about his uncle was the time he had been arrested and practically beaten to death by the Brits in prison.

«He slit a Brit’s throat one night to avenge a friend of his. But then he was arrested on his way home because he had his knife with him and there was still a little blood on it. And so the SSD arrested him and they knew people from IRA liked him and he was kind of a chief, and so he knew a lot of things. So they tried to make him speak, but he didn’t. They made him suffer the bathtub torture, and he didn’t speak! You know what it is?»

Alan shook his head, he didn’t know, but something told him this Galvin had all the makings of a great hero.

«Well they tied his hands behind his back, and they thrusted his head into a bathtub full of water super fast so he had the impression he’s drowning. And he didn’t speak! And so when the Brits saw it didn’t work, they cut out food for him. But it still didn’t work, and so they beat him and punched him in the face, but at some point, they released him. Now, his back is so damaged that it’s super stiff, and it hurts sometimes when he’s walking. You’ll see, he’s a warrior. When I grow up, I want to have a tattoo like him. He got the names of my cousin and my auntie tattooed on his chest, just where the heart is.»

«That’s cute.»

Alan was terrified of what was to come. He guessed Galvin hadn’t had the names engraved in his skin for nothing, in such times. He shivered uncomfortably and tried to hide he was freezing as Tom lifted his watery, bright blue glance at Alan. Alan was facing an adult. Tom was no longer this little kid admiring his Irish nunky, he was an adult filled with hatred, pain and anger. His eyes were so grave…

«They’re dead now. My cousin and my auntie died in their house because some loyalists threw a molotov cocktail through the window and then it exploded. Erwan was 2… Oh, fuck the Brits, I hate them, I want to kill them all!»

What had this child seen? Alan needed fresh air. This child, this small child had just told him about torture, death and explosions, and Alan knew the kid knew what it was all about, what pain was, what humiliation and rage were. The war had stolen his childhood. He didn’t think he was ready to face this. He knew he could bear torture, but seeing such grave children was something he couldn’t stand. They were not children, they were souls of martyrised adults, they were widowers before their time, their eyes conveyed something you couldn't comprehend. They were stuck in a child’s body.


End file.
